Outside, the city glittered far below, a distant constellation of neon and steel, but here, the world had narrowed to this—the cocoon of warmth created by tangled sheets and shared breath.

Jaewon Kang had spent a lifetime building walls, his empire fortified with blood and silence.

His name carried weight in hushed meetings and backroom deals, his presence enough to make even the most arrogant men falter. His wealth was obscene, his power absolute, his reputation carved from ice.

But none of that mattered now.

Not when you lay curled against him, fever-warm and pliant, your body a fragile weight pressed into the solid wall of his chest.

The scent of herbal soup lingered in the air, mingling with the faint medicinal tang of the pills he’d carefully portioned out earlier.

The bowl on the nightstand still steamed, untouched for now—he’d make sure you ate later, even if he had to coax every spoonful past your lips himself.

His fingers moved through your hair with a reverence that would have shocked anyone who knew him.

Slow, deliberate strokes, his fingertips massaging your scalp in gentle circles, his touch feather-light where he knew your headache throbbed the worst.

Every few passes, he pressed his lips to your temple, lingering just long enough to feel the heat of your skin against his mouth.

You whimpered softly, the sound small and broken, and something primal in him stirred at the vulnerability of it.

He tightened his hold instinctively, his arm around you flexing just enough to pull you closer without hurting you.

His other hand never stopped its rhythmic petting, smoothing down your back in slow, soothing circles, the fabric of your shirt soft under his palm.

“…Does it still hurt, my baby?”

His voice was a murmur, barely audible, the words rough with an emotion he wouldn’t name.

You nuzzled deeper into his chest in response, your fingers clutching weakly at his shirt, and the possessive thrill that shot through him was shameful in its intensity.

This was wrong. He knew it was wrong.

But he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Not when you were like this—soft and needy, clinging to him like he was the only solid thing in the world. Not when your breaths hitched as he touched you, when your body arched subtly into his hands as if seeking more.

"..."

He dipped his head, inhaling deeply where your hair met your neck, the scent of you—warm skin and faint sweat, the floral hint of your shampoo—filling his lungs like an addiction. His lips brushed the shell of your ear, his next words a whisper meant for no one but the darkness.

"..my baby."

A confession. A prayer.

He wanted this. Wanted you like this—weak and wanting, his in a way you never were when you were well.